


To Cast the World in a Shade of Green

by VarricTitsrass



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: ?? - Freeform, Dimension Travel, M/M, Sheogorath is a troll, The dragonborn is a troll, Thedas isnt ready
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:01:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22119088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VarricTitsrass/pseuds/VarricTitsrass
Summary: With a flash of thunder and a smattering of lightning the rain starts. With his pack soaked through, his hair clinging to his face and his boots full of mud, Rivenarr turns his face to the torn sky. It almost seems to be glowing a brighter tinge of green.“Ah. Of course. Sheogorath is definitely watching.”ORThe Dragonborn isn't sure what he's done to deserve being tossed into another realm, but he's sure Sheogorath is to blame. At least he has a pretty mage to help him adjust.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 110





	To Cast the World in a Shade of Green

**Author's Note:**

> Do I have any right to be starting a new fic? No. Am I doing it anyway? You betcha.

The sky was tearing itself apart. 

Rivenarr has never seen anything like it, though Sheogorath’s realm came to mind. The very manifestation of madness as a tangible thing. A place where event he strongest of Kings can be drive to a quivering mess. He’d been in the realm of the Daedra so often that his connection to their realms had become strong. It was a similar kind of pull he felt to this tear. One that pulled at his soul. 

He lips turned downwards and he pressed his hand over his amulet of Tsun. Hopefully his God would protect him from the lure of this foreign magic. He licked at the front of his teeth anxiously. Whether or not Tsun was a match for Sheogorath in his element - trickery and foolishness - was another matter entirely.

He had woken up in this world less than a week prior. He had no idea of where he was or how he had arrived here, the only inclination of his purpose was the Folium Discognitum that was currently hidden in the depths of his bag. Sheogorath’s book of madmen. Something he had neither read nor carried on is person.

He had no desire to be driven to insanity himself, drowning in the words of the insane.

It would seem he was in this strange place by the will of the Daedra. Or the whim. As was more likely with the Prince of Madness. He pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose and kept on walking, hoping he was reaching the end of the god-forsaken marshland he had landed in, avoiding the water as he went. Rivenarr was used to surprises, really he was. By Talos he created them most of the time, often in the form of chaos and maybe a little bit of bloodshed. He was the _Dragonborn._ He lived to cause _havoc_. 

He pauses and wonders if maybe that was why Sheogorath had taken such a liking to him. 

Regardless, it had been a less than pleasant surprise to discover that the water summoned the dead. Or awoke was perhaps a more fitting word as it seemed the ground beneath his feet was literally _littered_ with corspes!

Really, Sheogorath couldn't have picked a better place to leave him stranded. 

The marsh reeked of death and plague, houses lay decrepit, their former owners slowly returning to the earth inside them. The earth itself was forever moving, the endless rain kept it pliable and soft for the unrelenting stream of emaciated bodies to claw themselves from, ancient bows adorning their backs. They were almost Draugr, but they had nothing to defend, no tombs to rise from. Just stinking masses of corpses tossed into mass graves with no feasible way to return to Sovngarde. It was monstrous, even by his standards.

Despite the seemingly never ending number of dead there were also signs of life. Footprints that have yet to be erased by the weather, fresh campfires and whispers in the night. No this place  _ was _ inhabited. He had just yet to figure out  _ who _ would want to live here. 

Aside from the fat skeever things with the weird noses. But he wasn't thinking about them. 

Honestly, this place left a worse taste in his mouth than Riften, which was saying something. He grimaced as his boot sank into the mud and sighed. Another pair ruined and his supply certainly wasn’t limitless. 

This place was a little like if someone took Riften, merged it with Markarth, rolled them both in shit and tossed it into the depths of some Dwemer ruin for the Falmer to feast on. 

Fuck, it even had the glowly magic shit the Dwemer loved so much.

Rivenarr takes one look at the stone pillar, engulfed in the light of green fire, burning brightly on what otherwise might be ordinary torches and turns on his heel. He had dealt with enough magic bullshit in his life to know that  _ this _ was not something he wanted to deal with.

It would definitely summon some eldritch horror that Rivennar would have to slay and he really wasn't in the mood for such Dragonborn-esque actions. 

Maybe he could start a fire. 

With a flash of thunder and a smattering of lightning the rain starts. With his pack soaked through, his hair clinging to his face and his boots full of mud, Rivenarr turns his face to the torn sky. It almost seems to be glowing a brighter tinge of green. 

“Ah. Of course. Sheogorath is definitely watching.”

-

The thing about bogs - Dorian ruminates, ankle deep in sludge and slime - is that, no matter your predilections for wet and cold and misery, they are impossible to enjoy. Even Adaar, who seems to take great, sadistic joy in dragging him - Him! Dorian  _ bloody _ Pavus! - to the shittest of shit holes in the whole of Ferelden, has a somber look on his face.

“Not enjoying the deluge, dearest Inquisitor?” He avoids making eye contact with Cole, who has a tendency to turn those ridiculous puppy dog eyes on him, whenever he decides to be vexing. 

Which is, admittedly, considerably often. What can he say, the boy is decidedly skilled at getting under the skin. 

Adaar doesn't look back at him, but Dorian takes satisfaction from the smattering of sparks that crawl out from the Vashoths finger tips. The Iron Bull snorts, wiping a large palm over his face in a rather futile attempt to dry his eyes. 

“I’d suggest a fire, but not even your magic shit is gonna keep it a light.”

Cole frowns. Dorian doesn't glance down, already knowing all he’ll find is a disturbing lack of footprints under the boy’s feet. “ It’s too full. The ground is crying.” 

There is an uncomfortable pause in which the Iron Bull steadfastedly pretends he's not listening and Dorian grimaces. Adaar sighs. “That makes two of us.”

They trudge along. And trudge some more. Really, the whole point in leadership was delegation. If they humored every man who challenged the Inquisitor personally, Dorian would never experience the delight of clean sheets and good wine. His hair must look awful. Dorian spots a house in the distance. He squints, vision blurred by rain and exhaustion. 

“Now, who wants to bet there’s enough of a roof on that shack for us to make camp?”

Bull and Addaar, marching on ahead sigh simultaneously. 

“Suckers bet.” The Iron Bull says. 

“I’m going to say yes. For my sanity.” Addaar mutters, looking as adorably hopeful as a 7ft tall, murderous Tal-Vashoth can look. 

Cole stops and reaches for to pluck a read of blood lotus from the ground. “There isn't a roof.”

“Well.” Dorian says, eyeing the ripple of water the reed sends out despairingly. “That rather spoils the fun of it.”

The water bubbles and a crumbling hand shoots to the surface from its depths, gripping a bow tightly in had. 

“Another few weeks in this damn place and I may have to change specialisations.” He mourns, gathering a ball of fire at the tip of his staff. He must have seen more corpses in the last week that most Mortalitasi see in their entire lives. 

“Less talk more killing.” The Iron Bull wedges the blade of his axe into the weeping skull of a walking corpse. Adaar frowns. 

“Is it killing if they’re already dead?”

Dorian spears the end of his staff through the chest of another corpse, eyeing its empty eye sockets and slimy frame. It skin has started peeling from its shoulders, drooping heavily off of yellowed bones. 

“The dead can die. It’s more painful the second time.” Dorian swears, startled by the rogues sudden appearance. He lowers his staff as the last of the dead fall and rubs the bridge of his nose. 

“Well… yes. Thank you for that delightful tidbit, Cole.” The spirit's responding grin is so bright that the dichotomy between it and the awful situation Dorian finds himself is is almost laughable. He hasn't quite grasped sacasm yet, despite Varric's best efforts.

“You’re welcome, Dorian!”

-

Time passes slowly. With no aim, no direction and no idea where he actually  _ is,  _ the ambling pace of the sun as it settles in the sky is almost torturous. 

Rivenarr has lost one of his gloves. It had come loose in the struggle with one of the not-draugr and when he’d reached down to collect it after the fight, something else had reached  _ back. _

He’d decided that sacrificing it was a wise decision. Part of him is glad he is in light-armour, as wading through the mud in dragonbone would actually kill him, but his cloak is so soaked through that his feels almost as if he is carrying a wet dog on his back.

The water beneath him at this point has become so entangled with the earth that he doesn't think he’ll ever see dry land again and Rivenarr has mostly taken to watching his feet in case another corpse grabs his ankle. He doesn't want to go face first into swamp water. Again.

All in all, his day isn’t really  _ improving _ . By the nines he just wants a nice warm bedroll and a smouldering fire to rest beside. Is that so much to ask?

Rivenarr spots the horns before he really even spots the campfire. The bog has cast such heavy fog that the smoke from the fire is non-existent. For a single, heart-stopping second, he thinks he’s seeing daedra and his sword is in hand reflexively. He drops into a crouch, stepping closer. 

The Daedra laugh. Rivenarr’s forehead creases at the sound, not cruel, just.. Happy. 

Not Daedra then. 

And then there’s a boy in front of him. He starts and falls on his ass with a yelp. “Son of a dragon’s whore, boy I could’ve killed you!” 

“Yeah, you wouldn’t have got that far.” Up close and all bared teeth, these ‘daedra’ look significantly more human that the one’s he’s used to. 

He climbs to his feet with his hand out in front of him. “No need for all the fuss.” He wonders if they’ll burn. Or scorch, if he has to resort to lightning. “We’re all friends here!”

He tries to smile reassuringly, but he's been told being faced with his grin is not dissimilar to coming face to face with the drooling maw of a dragon. The ‘daedra’ frown and he can’t help but wonder if perhaps, that comparison is true. 

“Because friends so often sneak up on one another in the dead of night. Well, they do in Tevinter, as it so happens. But here in the uncivilised lands of Ferelden I’m told it’s quite rude.” 

Rivenarr can’t quite help but give the new arrival a look-over. He is very pretty. Rivenarr has a weakness for pretty things. “You’ll have to forgive me, I mistook you companions for someth- some _ one _ else.”

The one with the eye-patch gives him a look that says his slip of the tongue has not been missed. 

The pretty one - a mage, by the looks of things - huffs. “And  _ who _ else could you possibly have mistaken them for. We’ve seen scarcely a hint of anything aside from the Avaar. There certainly aren't any  _ other  _ Qunari prancing around this fade damned swamp.” 

When in doubt… deflect. “Ah yes. And this swamp, where is it exactly?” Please say something logical. Like the Black Marsh, Valenwood even. 

The boy in the strange hat seems to float towards him. Unwilling to be intimidated by a child - he did have  _ some _ reputation to uphold - Rivenarr simply smiles. 

“You’re very lost.” Not a question, a statement. Some kind of seer then. Ugh. He hates seers. 

“It just so happens that I am, yes. So here. Where is it?” 

One of the big guys - Qunari? The Qunari without the eyepatch lowers his staff. “The Fallow Mire, in Ferelden. That is where we are.” 

There is a pause in which Rivenarr tries to adjust to quite how fucked he is. “I see. Charming name.” 

“Fereldens. They have no sense of taste. Or creativity. Quite a dreary lot all in all.” Rivenarr supposes he can’t say much to that. He’s from  _ Solitude. _

Eye-patch snorts. “You ‘vints don’t have much in the way of taste either, big guy.” 

It almost seems choreographed, the way the other Qunari steps in to put a stop the the budding argument. The look on his face says he’s dealt with it enough to be sick of it. Honestly, Rivenarr can relate. He’s been sandwiched between Skjor and Aela enough times to understand, although its more so Aela doesn't just say ‘fuck it’ and finally cut Skjor’s throat open like she  _ really _ wants to.

Ah. Young love. 

“Why don’t you sit with us? This is pretty much the only place in the whole damn swamp you’ll be able to get a fire going anyway.” 

Rivenarr ignores a disparaging groan of ‘inquisitor’ and wonders if the large man invites strangers to their swampside camp often. Beaming up at his new horned companion he says, “Ever so kind, neighbour. I would be delighted.” 

-

It says something about the current political state of affairs in Skyrim that Rivenarr has a friendlier experience with these strangers from another world, one of which he almost ran through with a sword, that he has his own nordsmen. 

‘The Inquisitor’, one of the horned fellows who are decidedly  _ not _ daedra and are in fact ‘Qunari’, does a very good job of not looking as suspicious as he very clearly is. The other Qunari grins broadly at him, but much in the was a snow leopard does before pouncing on its prey.

The odd child hasn’t stopped staring at him with those disconcertingly wide eyes since he’s arrived and the pretty one doesn’t even attempt conversation outside of the occasional sharp comment or oddly charming scowl.

All in all rather friendly. 

Rivenarr eyes the fish that has been slowly roasting over the fire dubiously. “You went fishing despite knowing that these are disgusting, plague riddled waters?” Not forgetting the Draugr, never does well to forget the Draugr.

“There are pools higher up in the hills that are fine to fish from. The Avaar manage.” Says the one that calls himself ‘The Iron Bull’ and Rivenarr really needs to pick up a name like that. Dragonborn really isn't doing it for him anymore. 

“Right. I’m not all that hungry anyway.” The Iron Bull snorts.

“Not gonna find much else out here.” Rivenarr thinks that might be something of an understatement. 

“I suppose that much is true. The only other things I’ve seen that appear to actually be  _ living _ and those ugly creatures. The ones that seem fond of ramming into one another.”

The Inquisitor raises an eyebrow and Rivenarr huffs. “You know? Bald. White, wrinkly skin? Awful, flat snouts?”

“Bogfisher.” Says the IronBull.

“ _ Bogfisher.”  _ Says Dorian, the pretty mage, in a tone that says he knows exactly what Rivenarr is talking about and isn’t happy the larger man brought it up.

The Inquisitor chuckles. “Not a fan, I take it.” 

“Is  _ anyone? _ ”

“I like them.” And now, Rivenarr is  _ sure _ the boy wasn't there a second ago. He squints at the disconcertingly wideeyes and ridiculous hat.

“Are you a ghost?” He says. Thinking back to Pelagius the Mad and the cursed creatures that had haunted some of the crypts and tombs he’d raided over the years. The Inquisitor make an odd sound and swipes a hand over his neck in a motion that could mean either ‘cease this line of questioning’ or ‘I’m going to kill you horribly.’ Or perhaps both at the same time. 

Cole blinks. “No. I never died. Not really.” 

“Huh.” Out of the corner of his eye, he see’s the IronBull and the Qunari Inquisitor having a very panicked, very silent conversation. Dorian looks a few seconds from pulling out a sweetroll, his eyes locked on him a Cole. 

Now, Riven has never been very good at ignoring a mystery. He leans forward and rests his chin on his hand. 

“How does one, ‘not really die?” He pauses. “No, that’s fine I already know.” But the soul cairn had never resulted in something like  _ Cole.  _ Ignoring Dorian's disbeliving mutter of 'what do you mean you all ready know?' he asks. “Can you phase through walls?” 

“No, not really.”

“Can you move things without touching them?” 

“No, not really.”

He furrows his brow. “Can you read minds?” The not-ghost hesitates and Riven grins. “Thats a yes!” 

“Not really… just… emotions… and flashes.” 

“Empathetic mind reading then.” He waves hand dismissively. “Same thing.” 

Riven opens his mouth to ask another question. Something along the lines of ‘are you a daedra?’ or ‘are you going to take my soul in my sleep?’, but the Inquisitor cuts him off, clearing his throat loudly. “Time for bed I think.”

The Iron Bull has already climbed inside his tent, his feet hanging out the end. Rivenarr is pretty sure he can see his horns making indents on the back of his tent. 

He pouts but doesn’t push. He knows when he’s found a skeever nest and knows better than to poke it. 

For now.

Dorian huffs, pushing a strand of hair out of his face and eyeing the now floating Cole and sulking Rivenarr incredulously. He climbs into his tent with all the drama of a man who's put up with far too much for far too long.

“You’re all mad, I never should have left Tevinter.”

-

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
